“There speaks the dedicated writer—all is grist to her mill. I know she was given a couple of famous rubies. One once belonged to the wife of the Indian rajah who built the Taj Mahal. An emperor, I think, not a mere rajah, but it wasn’t he who gave it to the Queen.”
“Hardly. The Taj Mahal was built centuries ago.”
Lucy sniffed. And sniffed again. “Your toast’s burning.”
“Oh blast! It’s rescuable if I scrape it. Is the soup ready?”
Stirring, Lucy said, “Not quite. The other ruby I’ve heard of was given by a maharani who was presented at Court. My grandmother still fulminates about the impropriety of presenting natives at the Court of St. James.”
“I dare say. What happened to the rubies?”
“The Queen left that one to the Duchess of Albany, who left it to Princess Alice. She often wears it, as you’d know if you read the right magazines. As far as I know, Queen Mary has the other one.”
“Victoria didn’t give any away during her lifetime, though?”
“Not that I know of. It is odd that she disposed of the Transcarpathia ruby to a museum, especially as it was given to her by a European ruler, undoubtedly distantly related.”
“They all are,” Daisy agreed, sitting down at the kitchen table as Lucy ladled soup into bowls. “It’s hardly surprising Rudolf Maximilian resents the rebuff and wants it back, quite apart from his need for money.”
“I’ll see if I can find out any more,” Lucy offered. “Gosh, darling, don’t let me forget I owe your Alec half a crown. Lady Bitherby wants a portrait in a new gown this afternoon and she’s usually pretty good about paying on the spot.”
After lunch, Daisy went to her study, with the noble intention of typing up the latest lot of shorthand notes for her article. Fingers poised over the keyboard, she stared blankly at her notebook for several minutes.
It wasn’t that she could no longer read her own shorthand, though she sometimes wondered if that moment would come. Her mind was not on the doings of the Mineralogy Department, but on what had been done to it, to its keeper and its collection. She decided to write down the chain of reasoning she had followed on her way home. Putting it into black and white ought to clarify her thoughts, and it just might be of some use to Alec.
The exercise failed to provide any brilliant insight or inspiration. She set it aside and got on with her work.
Just when Daisy was beginning to long for a cup of tea and to wonder if Mrs. Potter had left any biscuits, the doorbell rang. Rushing to finish the sentence she was in the middle of, she heard Lucy go to answer the door.
“Ah, the debt collector,” Lucy drawled. “Daisy told you I expected to be paid today?”
“I raced round at once,” Alec responded lightly.
“Daisy’s typing away, judging by the rattle. I’m on my way to put on the kettle for tea. Will you have a cup?”
“Yes, please. I didn’t manage any lunch today.”
“I can take a hint. Scrambled eggs? Come on down to the kitchen, if it’s not too infra dig for a Chief Inspector. Daisy will come as soon as the kettle whistles.”
Daisy was glad to hear them on such friendly terms. When she took up with a middle-class policeman, Lucy had been almost as sticky as the Dowager Viscountess, and there had been a memorable row or two.
Reaching the end of the paragraph, she went to join them. The kettle was burbling happily to itself, butter sizzled in a frying pan, and Lucy was whisking eggs in a bowl while Alec kept an eye on the bread toasting under the grill. He looked tired, Daisy thought. Perhaps a meal would restore his energy.
As the burble rose to a screech, she took charge of the tea-making.
“Darling, I was just going to tell your pet copper about the Transcarpathia ruby,” said Lucy. Pouring the eggs into the pan, she did not notice Alec’s dismay, or his positively inquisitorial look at Daisy. “I popped in to see Aunt Eva. She knows absolutely all there is to know about royalty.”
“I just wondered why the Queen gave it away,” Daisy said defensively.
“It seems your Grand Duke’s grandfather was a boon companion of Bertie’s—King Edward’s. He thought it very funny that the ruby once belonged to a famous courtesan, and when he presented it to Queen Victoria, he was so unwise as to make a little joke about it. Needless to say, our good Queen was Not Amused. She gave it to the museum even before he left the country, which I must say I think was a bit thick. Do you like them runny or set, Alec?”
Alec opted for set. When he had eaten, he and Daisy tooktheir second cups of tea up to the sitting room. This was furnished with an eclectic mixture of furniture from Daisy’s and Lucy’s family homes. It was all good, but as Daisy had chosen with an eye to comfort and Lucy to elegance, and the upholstery had been intended for different houses, the overall effect was a bit of a hodgepodge. The bookcase and its contents were Daisy’s, the Beardsley prints Lucy’s.
“I didn’t tell Lucy about the robbery,” Daisy said as Alec sank into a deep, leather-covered wing chair abstracted from the library at Fairacres. “The Grand Duke is mixed up in the murder, too, remember.”
“How can I forget?” Alec said wearily.
“Do you think they’re connected? By more than Pettigrew being Keeper of Mineralogy, I mean.”
